The Lover's Children novel Chapter 48

KLEMPNER

On the face of it, the figure is doing the same as I am, watching the world go by. But my interest in the activity by the park is casual. His seems more… focused.

Arsonists famously get off on watching the fire services deal with the consequences of their handiwork. Several serial killers I can think of got their kicks by making themselves the centre of attention with the police, giving staged appeals for daughters, wives and girlfriends to be returned by alleged kidnappers, when all the while the poor bitch was already buried under the patio.

Am I being ridiculous?

Letting my imagination run riot?

I don’t know.

So… I watch him… watching them…

After a while, he knocks back his beer, then leaves his table, strolling across to the snacks van. He pauses, then moves along with a cone of fries.

Long-legged, in jeans, sneakers and that damn hoodie, he walks with a spring in his step, jaunty, crossing the square to sit on a bench, still facing toward the gate but now viewing from a different angle. He pops a fry into a mouth I can't see, but he's still clearly enjoying the police circus.

My waiter hovers. “Anything else, sir?”

“Just my bill. Do you sell cigarettes?”

“There's a vending machine in the bar.”

“Fetch me a pack. Menthols. And a lighter.”

Cigarette in hand, trying not to inhale the filthy thing, I dawdle along, angling to see the face behind the hood.

A couple of police in uniform stand by the gate, moving along any obvious loiterers, so I retreat toward the van.

The vendor is hawking donuts coffee and cans of fizz, burgers and dogs, waylaying the innocent with the waft of frying onions. Occasionally he casts the evil eye at the tramp, sitting on a sheet of cardboard, a cap, shiny with wear, set down in front of him. Passers-by skirt around both tramp and cap.

My stomach growls, reminding me of my abbreviated brunch. Eyeing the sizzling wares, I peer over the counter to check out the state of the kitchen...

Seems clean enough...

Coffee and a hot dog seems a safe enough purchase and gives me an excuse to hang. The vendor scoops bun, sausage and onions together with practised speed... "Mustard and ketchup on the end." ... and I retreat with my steaming cup and napkin to a bench by the rails, shadowed under an overhanging shrub, not exactly hidden, but inconspicuous enough for me to watch unnoticed.

Cradling my lunch in its napkin, I bite in...

Hmmm...

Genuine dog...

No wonder they always serve these things with mustard...

The tramp's watching me, fixed on the thing in my hand. "Want it?" He nods, and I pass it down to him, minus one bite...

Whatever he did to end up on the street, he doesn't deserve what's in that sausage. On an impulse, I toss a couple of coins into his hat.

Cradling my coffee, I sip from my prop...

... and watch...

Wind gusts, and the hood billows. For a moment I think I'm going to see the face, but Hoodie Man shrugs it back into place, tosses his empty cardboard cone into a trashcan, and ambles away.

He follows the footpath running along the boundary wall of the park. I saunter behind him, lagging by a couple of hundred yards, my newspaper tucked under one arm.

The path is used by joggers, dog-walkers and women with babies and small children. A teenager with an overweight spaniel pauses while the dog relieves itself, tugging the dog to one side as Hoodie Man passes. A pair of women pushing strollers part, letting him pass between them.

A jogger, earphones arcing over his skull, veers around him.

Five minutes walking and he reaches the next entrance to the park, crowded with children gathered around an ice cream kiosk. He joins the queue and I halt, lighting another cigarette, smoking it as he works to the front of the line and buys a cornet.

Making a sharp left turn into the entrance, he vanishes through the gate and grinding the butt under my toe, I set off at a smart pace after him.

Inside…

… I don’t see him…

Damn!

I scan open grass and trees. He can’t possibly have wandered out of sight in the short time he had.

Kids bat balls with fathers…

Teenage girls giggle at a group of boys, flaunting their doubtful assets…

A smartly dressed woman throws a ball for her mongrel…

I spin, seeking my target. Past the press vans… across to the station entrance… the terraces of cafes and restaurants…

He’s nowhere in sight.

At some level, I know I’m not being reasonable, trailing a complete stranger on barely more than a whim. But something about Hoodie has set my alarms blaring.

Could he have gone into the police enclosure?

If he did, then my instincts could be altogether askew. He’s surely some sort of official or investigator.

But I trust my instincts. They’ve kept me alive so far.

I find a spot on a bench where I can weigh up my options.

The police have made a major deal of the affair. Day-glo orange and yellow striped tape, Police - Crime Scene - Do Not Pass, flutters between posts, with only the single entrance and a pair of uniformed officers standing sentry: passing some automatically, checking ID on others.

Within the cordon is the screened enclosure. The screen rises above eye-level and beyond that is what looks like a tented area or marquee. Although the access point though the screen isn’t guarded, only police and what look like medical or forensics staff are passing through, some in overshoes and full-body paper coveralls.

The press are herded into a corral set between the outer cordon and the screen, blathering to cameras and into microphones. One woman taps into her phone, apparently writing some report on the spot.

One of the gate officers, a blonde girl, looking barely old enough to legally wear the uniform, passes someone through: a man clutching a tablet, talking non-stop into an ear-mike, wearing a lapel badge, Glen Burwell: City Inquirer. She gestures him toward the press enclosure. Her companion, a big bruiser, moves a couple of dawdling busybodies along.

A geeky-looking type staggers from one of the press vans, loaded with boxes and cases stacked too high. At the entrance, Bruiser checks his badge then admits him, again waving him to the enclosure. Geeky unloads his stuff and returns to his van, vanishing into the bowels.

When he exits again, a minute or so later, he’s loaded with reels of cable. Jostled by the crowd, several loops of cable magically uncoil from their reel, trailing and tangling between his feet…

To the opportunist, the spoils…

“Here, let me help you.” Picking up his escaped cables, I wind them back onto the reel.

“Thanks, Man. It’s chaos in there.”

“I can imagine. What’s happening?”

“Haven’t you heard? The Slasher’s got another one, ‘cept that they’ve changed the name. They’re calling him ‘The Surgeon’ now.” Clutching his cables, “Sorry, gotta go. I’m needed up there. Thanks for your help.”

He lurches away, to be stopped by the uniform on duty, cursing as he’s not admitted and he realises he’s not wearing his ID. Muttering to himself, he returns to his vehicle, I assume to look for his mislaid badge. I make for the snacks van.

*****